Category: 5 Min Read

5 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Parenting, Re-parenting, Robert Samuel Walker, Spirituality, The Mothers

I am Regina Lynette. I am more than a Baptist Christian.

Regina Lynette

My granddaddy was a Baptist preacher. Daddy was a Baptist preacher. And on that side of the family I have uncles and cousins who are preachers and deacons. It is because of that legacy I choose to be a Baptist Christian.

My Indian/Native American/Indigenous roots show up in common identifying features of my Walker tribe. We as a family talked about what characteristics we got from our Cherokee ancestors that was passed down to my full-blooded great-grandmother, the last full-blooded ancestor in my paternal line more than any other influence in our ancestry. When I was born, a white man who Daddy knew was quoted as saying that I looked just like a little Indian – supposedly he couldn’t identify me out of the babies because he was looking for a Black baby and not a little Indian who later sneezed on him, like a little Indian. And when I wore a particular hairstyle in high school someone crudely stated that all I was missing was a peace-pipe. I’m a Xennial so there are some allowances made for the best of intentions despite the inappropriate language. It is because of that legacy I choose to integrate rituals that are commonly associated with those of Indians/Native Americans/Indigenous Peoples into the rituals that are recognized by Baptist Christians.

My European roots were seldom spoken of, however cannot be denied in my blood memory. In fact, I only heard one family member ever mention a sole white man in my ancestry, and only one time in my life. But my research leads me to assume that I have a legacy that includes roots in Catholicism, and it is because of this legacy that I am sure to include rituals that are more specific to Catholicism than Baptist Christianity in my sacred time.

My great-grandfather was an active member of the United Methodist Church teaching, serving as an usher, and serving as an elected lay member. And this is the legacy my mother and siblings were born into. It is because of this legacy that I have reintroduced one particular ritual into my Baptist Christian sacred time.

My Mothers originated from the Cameroonian People. This was never discussed in any measure that I can find or ever heard in family stories. But my blood tells me this is true, and it is because of this legacy I include rituals that are characterized by the West African religions into my Baptist Christian sacred time.

The day I was presented to Earth, I was born of a mother of United Methodist heritage and a father of mixed Baptist-COGIC heritage. I was a critical factor in my parents’ marrying and their marriage was the critical factor that influenced my Baptist Christianity.

Just as society generalizes me a born US Citizen/Black American/African-American (with no Hispanic origin), I generalize myself as Baptist Christian. Despite society not making adequate room for my Indian/Native American/Indigenous People roots nor my European roots – I can’t accurately select any other ethnicity, race, or color on any legal forms – I fully embrace being a typical “slavery baby” and acknowledge my African, European, and Indigenous roots in everyday life and with my blood family (those consequences of my ancestors’ choices). And despite my wearing the simplified label of Baptist Christian, I incorporate rituals typically associated with other religions into my personal religious rites and rituals.

My disillusion with “the church” has led me to a place that is much less structured yet feels much closer to pure in my spirituality, religious beliefs, and sacred spaces and times. Evangelism is not my spiritual gift but Teaching is, and with that knowledge I am better able to rest in this non-structured place even when it results in isolation, loneliness, and sometimes confusion. To teach you must first learn and you learn by research and experience – which can sometimes mean laying down what you already know as true to test something that seems contradictory. If you want to become a Baptist Christian, I will gladly educate you on a few important tenets, and then pass you along to someone who will be responsible with your journey, but I’m not anybody’s recruiter. I’m not likely to ever tell you that any path other than being a Baptist Christian is the right path for me. But I’m not likely to ever tell you that being a Baptist Christian is the only way that’s right for you except in agreement.

And I know eventually I will find my place in a family of Baptist Christians who will embrace me wholly regardless of what they think of me – for better or worse – and I will live with more structure in my spirituality, religious beliefs, and sacred spaces and times. It goes without saying that they will embrace my participation in all things associated specifically with Baptist Christianity, but they’ll also embrace my participation in all things sacred, regardless of its label or its roots without condemning me according to Baptist Christian exclusionary guidelines.

They’ll embrace my cleansing rituals that include smudging with sage, perfuming with incense, purifying with Holy Water, sanctifying with Blessed Oil, and praying with beads. They’ll embrace my use of various beads and prayer ropes with my sacred rituals. It will be okay that I have a sacred space at home that includes beads, candles, very specific colors and fragrances, dream catchers, and pictures of my ancestors. It will be okay that this is where I pray and sing and read and study at home. They’ll do this without condemning me.

They’ll embrace the way I recognize and keep the Lenten Season rituals and make that time of fasting very specific to my needs each year. They’ll embrace my choice to occasionally forsake corporate worship inside a man-made sacred place for an intimate solo worship ritual in creation with beads wrapped around my wrist. It will be okay for me to worship at the shores of moving water, washing my feet as I pray silently for forgiveness. It will be okay that I then release my petitions written on paper that will dissolve into that same body of water where I washed my feet, and then rest for a time while admiring all of creation. They’ll do this without condemning me.

I am Regina Lynette. I am more than a Baptist Christian.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Holidays, Parenting, Robert Samuel Walker

Christmases to Remember

Regina Lynette

The end-of-year holidays always drove me into a frenzy as a child that my teachers, siblings, and parents all overlooked, and I am grateful they did. It was a frenzy, but it was joy filled. My siblings who lived at home with me had been away at college, returning for Thanksgiving break. Nearly every conversation in the house started with “When the kids get home…” Even I called them “The Kids” despite their being old enough (biologically) to be my parents. I found joy in every little thing – the drafty house causing the windows to fog and condensation to run was one of the most ridiculous things to find joyful but was one of the happiest additions to the ambiance.

Even though Thanksgiving itself wasn’t particularly my favorite holiday, I enjoyed certain aspects and it was always a good time overall. My siblings coming home was the best part, the marshmallows on that nasty sweet potato thing Mommy made was second, and the mac-n-cheese was third. Outside of that I loved watching Mommy set out her mismatched China and fragile water glasses that she found at a yard sale and I loved how she enjoyed decorating her table and getting us to dress up for dinner. I love seeing those plates and glasses today for that same reason. Mommy’s dressing was pretty tasty as well and generally my soft-drink restriction was relaxed for the Thanksgiving meal.

But Thanksgiving was far too short for me and mostly just served as a defining line for when Christmas, the pinnacle of the year, could start. In between Thanksgiving and Christmas is my birthday, so it would be just a few days after Thanksgiving when I started writing a countdown to my birthday whenever I had to write the date. You know, I’d write my name and December 1st on my paper and then add “eleven days until my birthday”. I wasn’t exactly making an announcement, but my glee was just oozing out through my hand to my pencil and onto the paper. My teachers sometimes commented, and it seemed they understood the level of excitement demonstrated by that simple act. I can recall that at the height of reaching my birthday, I often sat on top of my desk – if I sat at all – and for whatever reason, my teachers had patience with me. The threshold for consequences was lowered for me universally during that time. Finally, about a week later we’d go on Christmas break and “The Kids” would be coming home soon again.

Christmas was always my favorite holiday, and being the only young kid in my household, Christmas was all about me, myself, and I. We went through the basic rules of magic – Santa only came if I was good and at night when I went to sleep – and I would wake up to a glorious toy-filled room at which I was front and center.

One year Daddy was going to have to work on Christmas morning, so this once Mommy decided we’d exchange gifts early on Christmas Eve at 2PM in the afternoon. It was the only time in my entire life that opening presents early was allowed. That Christmas Eve I was entirely out of control from the moment I opened my eyes until the moment we started opening presents. I had developed a special kind of impatience just for the occasion and thankfully I had a significantly lower threshold for when inappropriate behavior was punished. At some point in the day when I reached a particularly unattractive level of unreasonableness, Mommy suggested that I pass the time by cleaning out a toybox. Who the heck wants to clean? Even as a distraction I thought she was really stretching it. But then she insisted that I find a few specific toys and play with them. It was a step up from cleaning, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled playing with old toys when shiny new ones were under the tree waiting on me to open them. But I did it because even though that discipline threshold was low, it was not inexistent, and Mommy was not one to be played with – I truly believed everything under that tree might be taken away if she deemed necessary.

While I was playing with those old toys, 2PM made its way around and we opened presents. I felt a little ashamed by my behavior by the time we opened the gifts. Why was I losing my mind when I knew exactly the time of day I’d be in that bliss? And we were opening gifts a whole day earlier than usual so why was I lamenting the wait? And when I opened the biggest gift, it had everything to do with those toys she made me find and play with. And I was a little more embarrassed. And for some reason – I guess the moments of introspection, that year was the first time I really noticed how the adults exchanged presents and that they were excited by their big gifts, too. There was a world outside of mine on Christmas and it looked pretty nice. I was further embarrassed by my behavior, and I looked out the window into the backyard to let my thoughts wash over me (staring out of windows was something I learned to do because Mommy did it whenever she was thinking). And while I was thinking, it started snowing! Yes, it was Memphis so snowing meant some little flurries that never even stuck were floating around the air, but it was technically snowing. And since we were doing Christmas at that moment, I declared it my first ever White Christmas. And I grew up just a little bit that year. It would be an extremely slow growth, but it started that Christmas.

I don’t remember the toys in question or the gifts I received that Christmas. I remember that I saw myself as selfish and impatient and rude and decided I wanted to be more generous, more patient, and kinder. And I could see that not only did Mommy plan out every detail for a great and magical Christmas, but she had taken into account that I was going to be a restless spoiled brat up until the moments I got everything I wanted.

5 Min Read, Mental Health, Parenting, Re-parenting

A letter to 11-year-old me

Regina Lynette

I wrote a letter to my 11-year-old self a couple of years ago and I was surprised at how I handled it. It turned out to be a wonderful personal exercise and I truly wish 11-year-old me could receive and read it. I feel like I might have embraced my true self much earlier if I knew that no matter what I did, everything would still be okay eventually. But I might not be on this whole “identity” project right now so, I dunno, bittersweet and mixed feelings.

Dearest Gina,

Happy Birthday! You are eleven this year and at 42 years old, I wanted to write to you about some things to come. First of all, it’s time to accept one important fact – you are different. You are different from your neighbor friends, your school friends, and your community friends. And it’s okay. In fact, it’s good. The faster you accept it the faster you can embrace everything that comes with it and the easier it is to enjoy life. The second thing to know is that this is a significant year. This is the year your life purpose will be revealed. And lastly, things unfold rather slowly for you so know and remind yourself that this is okay.

You are different.

This is an important year.

Life unfolds slowly for you.

I want to tell you the secrets and all the answers to your questions but that’s not best. You have to learn and experience your life as it comes. But one of the things I can’t share with you in detail is coming soon and will be challenging. Your life is going to shift, and it will reinforce the first important thing I mentioned – you are different. The best way to manage the next seven years – which are going to be challenging – is to remember and understand that all things may not be good; all things won’t be bad; but all things work together for good.

That brings me to the significance of this year – your purpose will be revealed to you this year. And this is also why your life begins to shift. You’ll reject it and doubt it and that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. You’ll wrestle with it as you should. Here’s my advice – live your life in a pattern of intense awareness of self and surroundings alternating with times of mindless wandering and meandering. The moment something significant happens – something that provokes strong emotions which usually include fear or anger or sadness – remind yourself that everything that happens this year is to shift your life towards your purpose and calling. It’s all supposed to happen this way and if you change your perspective, you can feel better sooner. Don’t worry about trying to understand it. Just remember it has to happen exactly as it does – your life is unfolding exactly as it should in the most perfect way.

Now, that brings me to the perfect and slow unfolding of your life. Remind yourself that patience is key. Exercising patience will get you through every year of your life going forward. Go ahead and dream and plan and pursue goals and dreams but try to go easy on the timeline. Unfortunately, we don’t get to find out the actual timing of our lives. But don’t lose heart. If you didn’t imagine the right date, either accept that things happened earlier than expected and roll with it, or if it didn’t happen when you thought it should have, set another date in the future and keep moving forward. Just because you didn’t get the date right doesn’t mean you got the dream wrong. Remember that whatever desire has been placed in your heart is a part of the overall plan.

But no letter from your future self should exclude all specifics. What’s the purpose of reaching out to you if all I have to offer is the larger life lessons I’ve learned? Here are a few tips to make life a wee bit sweeter. You have the power to choose in these circumstances but consider my words when making your choices.

You probably already know that a new school is coming, and Mommy wants you there. Your fifth-grade teacher already knows you need to be there so follow her guidance. Your sixth-grade teacher is a real bully. If you’re going to take a stand with her, bring Mommy into the plan early. She’s going to push you to react, and Mommy needs to understand that you simply cannot tolerate a bully. When foreign language classes come around take French, not Spanish. The Spanish teacher is easier and more laid back, true, but the French teacher isn’t nearly as bad as she seems and it’s French that you need. Mommy’s plan for us has an end point in college. It’s perfect because it takes you up to the point where you’ll have another significant life shift so roll with it but start to imagine your own ideas of life after college.

You’ll have a series of life path changes that will place your choices in two categories – one that’s not ideal but will keep you close to friends and family; and one that is new and appealing but leaves behind some people. Never make that choice based on who will be beside you. There are a lot of people who are in your life for a season so let them go when the time comes. The people who are there for a lifetime will show up along either path. Oh, and you know that boy that everyone treats cruelly? The one who even the adults mistreat? Take your compassion for him a step further and actually treat him with kindness. And be open to friendship – he grows up to be very smart, handsome, and kind, but don’t do it for that reason. Do it because he’s a great guy to have in your life. He’s a seasonal character but it’s a good season.

Your dating life will be very different from your friends’ and family’s. First, you will find yourself more attracted to brains than brawn and almost never will be in competition with any of your friends for the same kind of guy. The first brain that catches your eye will be in your heart for years, but he is only in your life for a season. Learn from that relationship and let it go. The second brain that catches your eye will teach you the kinds of lessons that no one is able to explain about love and relationships. But be careful with his heart. He cares for you more than he shows you – maybe even more than he believes he does at the time so be gentle with him. The third brain who catches your eye will test all the lessons you learned about love and relationships. I want to tell you not to force the relationship, but he does really reinforce your understanding of self-respect so it’s up to you. Just gird your loins because a relationship with him is a real roller-coaster in a wind storm.

As far as that secret you’ve been keeping from the time you can remember, it will stop eventually. But understand that no one has a right to touch you. You are not sending secret messages through your eyes that you are not in control of so don’t be confused by what they say – you are being blamed for someone’s lack of control. And it is their responsibility to remain in control of their actions and they have a choice to make, so the consequences are theirs and not yours. Be horrified if you’re touched and be livid if you’re told you got what you wanted. Make a lot of noise of any kind. I know it took courage to tell that teacher what happened and I’m sorry she blamed you because it takes a child a lot of years to understand that adults can be wrong. If the schoolteachers don’t listen, go to the vice-principal, principal, guidance counselor, Mommy and Daddy, and if no one listens, go to the police. You won’t get justice so you can choose to be quiet until adulthood if you prefer and as I said it will eventually be okay. But if you are loud now, someone will be forced to listen to you. Don’t be afraid of getting into any kind of trouble with any means you choose to stop people from putting their hands on you. I only want you to know that telling and getting help is a viable choice and that I don’t want you to stop until you get what you need – the sooner the better.

Lastly, I want you to start writing in your journal daily or at least once every week this year. Then on your 12th birthday, read every entry in order. Keep this journal forever and read it again on your 42nd birthday. Trust me, it will be mind-blowing!

I love you.

You are strong.

Nothing is an accident.

Live with intention.

Enjoy Paris.

And tell Mommy to go to the doctor in December 1989. Tell the family to come home for Christmas that year. And no matter if they listen to you or not, know that it will all be ok.

Gina

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Holidays, Robert Samuel Walker

I love May 27th.

Regina Lynette

My mother went to work on a Thursday, May 27th as Donna Maria Thomas. She came back from her lunch break as Donna Maria Walker. That was the story. In my parents’ romance, lunch hours were never a time for actually eating lunch, but for things like making out on park benches and running down the street to the courthouse to get married. I remember making my parents recount the details for their 11th anniversary – that 11th anniversary was a little over 6 months before my 11th birthday. (It wouldn’t fully dawn on me that I attended that blessed event until sometime after my mother’s death I received a bible with their wedding anniversary and my birthday written together as events in the same calendar year.) I don’t remember my parents ever celebrating their wedding anniversary, but they both remembered it every year. It wasn’t strange to me that my parents didn’t celebrate their wedding anniversary – I never saw any parents doing that except on television. However, I considered it a significant milestone for my own life without any encouragement from anyone else.

Something else very special happened on a May 27th – my little sister was born on a Friday. As her mother, my Godmother, promised me she was born while I was safely at home away from the “drama”. I was nervous when she was heavily pregnant that she would suddenly go into labor like the ladies did on sitcoms and I didn’t want to be around when that happened. I remembered thinking, how perfect is it that my sister – who is not my parents’ child – was born on my parents’ anniversary? Why is that perfect? I don’t know exactly – I didn’t know then either.

May 27th has always felt like an important date for me. Maybe it was my parents’ anniversary but if I hadn’t come along when I did, how many more years beyond those 11 would they have continued their on-again, off-again romance? I used to get a kick out of the phrase “May-December Romance” because my parents were born 24 years apart and were the very definition of a May-December romance. And they got married in May. And I was born in December. And on another May 27th, I was gifted a baby sister. Yep – in my mind in those years that’s who she was to me, a gift. I knew even at age 6 to be chosen as a sister was something altogether different than being born into sisterhood. Neither is greater than the other but the intention behind the former is impossible to dismiss.

After I sent my sister birthday wishes, I decided to write about how I love May 27th. In December I explained how I hate December 26th (the day my mother died). In February I wrote about how I used to hate Valentine’s Day (the day my father died). Then I wrote about hating Mother’s Day. And Father’s Day is next month (and yes, I hate it too). So, I thought I’d throw in some of the days I have managed to love. I don’t have a lot of emotional and detailed events to share about why I love May 27th except that it’s the day that my parents came together, and the day my baby sister was presented to the world. It feels like God made that day just for me.

I love May 27th.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Doggie Auntie, Family

I am Regina Lynette. And I am an Auntie.

Regina Lynette

I was born an auntie. My father had four grandchildren before I was born. I met two more nephews and a niece when they were born while I was still a little girl. And by the time I was thirteen the only nephew I would spend years with was born. And when I was seventeen, the only niece I would spend years with was born. My older nieces were having babies and there are three (or more) great-nieces and great-nephews I never met.

The only nephew and niece that I have spent significant time with are Sissy’s children. Her son was my mother’s first grandchild, and we were excited from the day we knew he was conceived. Unfortunately, Mommy died about two months before he was born. I spent my days and years with them, dreaming of how I would spoil them and wanted to be their favorite auntie – they have two other paternal aunties. I insisted at age thirteen that they would call me Aunt Gina and I was very invested in their day-to-day care, despite living in a different city and state for the first 10 years of my nephew’s life (the first 6 years of his sister’s life). Then I moved in with them for a few years – Rebel Gina years unfortunately – and made an effort to be what I thought they needed from an auntie. I was both playmate and caretaker. One of my favorite days with them was when we went to Burger King for kids’ meals and Rugrats watches before we went to the theater to watch the Rugrats movie. And then we sang the soundtrack all the way back home.

I lived with them again recently and I ended up being an auntie in a different way. My nephew had a German Shepherd, Simba, when we moved into the house where I live now. I was instructed to meet this dog when he was a puppy and bring him a toy because he was going to have professional training to be a guard dog and he needed to know I was included in the pack. I saw him as a puppy and when I saw him again, he was tall as me on his hind legs. I was scared to death of him until I got to know him – he was so sweet and sensitive and gentle. Came to check on me when I fell down the stairs. Got depressed when he realized he was home alone with me overnight. And kept all of us safe from harm, even from each other. And though this wasn’t their first dog, this was the first dog that treated me like an auntie. He only wanted to be with me if I had a treat – and he was constantly checking my hands and pockets for goodies (admittedly there was often something there for him). When his owner was around I was playmate, and when he wasn’t I was caretaker. I stayed on the hunt for his favorite bones and toys, managed his food intake so he stayed at a healthy weight, and took him with me for walks around the neighborhood. Then, sadly, he passed away.

Simba relaxing with one of his favorite toys on the lanai.

Later, after my nephew moved into his own place, he got a Rottweiler puppy, Juice. I didn’t want to be as involved in his life as I was Simba’s and since he didn’t officially live with us, I thought I could manage that easily. I did have to meet him as a small puppy to be known as one of the pack and after I’d bought his love, I tried to pull back a bit. I wanted to pet him for about 15 minutes when he came to visit, give him ice cubes when we were outside, and then not be bothered. Then came another Rottweiler puppy, Gin (yep, there are a pair of dogs here right now named Gin and Juice). Gin wasn’t terribly interested in the humans – Juice picked her out and she was only interested in him. I had to make friends with her for the same reason I did with Simba and Juice. And like I was with Simba, I was a #DoggieAuntie again. This time my niece also claimed her status as #DoggieAuntie.

Juice picked out Gin and here they’re getting to know each other before she came home with him.

Life happened and my nephew needed help with life which included caring for the pups. So my bond with them is growing because I am expanding my caretaker role. But they already treat me like an auntie so it’s a little more difficult with the training. They expect me to continue to be playmate. My spare time includes helping with training, feeding, walking, and poo duty which until now I’d vowed to never be involved with the things that came out of them. And I do it for my nephew. And I do it for Sissy. And I guess I do it for the dogs, too.

Gin and Juice – Best friends forever

Aunties are special creations. In every good Auntie there is a sister, a friend, and a mother. I was never able to care for and provide material things for my nieces and nephews in the way I’d hoped – their parents were all in a very different financial lane than I’ve ever been. And I always wanted to be more for my father’s grandchildren, even those who were older than I. There was always tension from our family structure and family choices and now, unfortunately, we are estranged. But I have always wanted to be a pillar when they needed it. I’ve always wanted them to have the things that they wanted. I’ve always wanted to spare them pain – even if it was a natural part of growing up that they needed to experience.

I’m not a perfect auntie. I don’t know if I’m a favorite auntie – how can you have favorites among the ones you love? And I’m not quite the auntie I set out to be. But I am a good auntie. When they need something, I do what I can to make sure they get it. When they want something, I try to get it or convince their parents to get it or pray for them to have it. And when they need to be loved, I love them like a friend and playmate, I love them like a sister, and I love them like a mother. I love being an auntie. Some days I think I was meant to be an auntie, possibly instead of being the mother I always wanted to be. Sometimes you don’t get what you want, but you get what you need.

I am Regina Lynette, Auntie.

5 Min Read, Soundtracks and Playlists, Spirituality

Neo-Soul exposed my Birth-Soul

Regina Lynette

The year was 1996 and I was working at Lerner New York (formerly Lerner; currently New York & Company) folding t-shirts on a table at the front of the store, planted as the deterrent for theft and the official greeter. A song played on the store’s new soundtrack for the month and it was love at first beat. On my break I searched the song title from the store playlist and went to the music store upstairs (I can’t remember what it was called because it changed nearly every year) to get my CD. I didn’t need to listen to it for free before purchasing on nasty community headphones used to sample music and was completely content that it was in my locker waiting for a late-night play on my shelf system at home during a “burn” to a cassette. Sadly, my car only played cassette tapes – which wasn’t weird for the year, but I was a few minutes behind the times not having a CD deck in the trunk of my car. And that aux setup for your portable CD player was a track-skipping nightmare. That CD was Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite and I listened to each track with my full attention catching every beat, horn, bass, and lyric. Despite that very long description of that moment, this post isn’t about Maxwell’s debut album. It’s about two artists I fell for much later after deciding that I was all about this Neo-Soul genre. Ms. Erykah Badu (1997) and Ms. Jill Scott (2000).

Neo-Soul caused a shift in the air of my everyday world. When I entered college, I was finally free to figure out who I really was at the core of my being. I was reaching into the depths of my soul to that which was planted in me when I was conceived, created, and born. Pretty soon after you’re born your parents put you on the best path they can so that you become a person who makes a strong and positive contribution to your family legacy and to the world, right? But they don’t always get it quite right – like my parents. And after Mommy died, I realized her plans for me basically ended after college graduation, and that I was living her plan for my life and had no other. Freshman year of college I learned I was going to have to change the major she intended for me and thus began my birth-soul* search. And while Maxwell, Lauryn Hill, Love Jones, and so many other artists and films contributed to this awakening of my birth-soul*, Erykah Badu and Jill Scott contributed in a different way. It was as if everything of the late 90’s created a foundation and Erykah Badu and Jill Scott came and painted murals all over that foundation. Those years, though personally tumultuous, were a time where it was beautiful to be black. It was full of rich chocolate browns, royal blues and purples, denim, leather, and the overly perfumed sprays of peaches, pears, and waters. I think I watched Love Jones every Friday night between 1997 and 2000. I literally didn’t want to leave the theater after watching The Best Man. It was a time to rival the 70s Black Is Beautiful atmosphere of the world.

As I prepared for the Erykah Badu/Jill Scott Versuz I realized how much these ladies/queens/goddesses contributed to the soundtrack of my life. Ms. Erykah Badu unearthed my love of herbal teas and tisanes, and my talent for creating a calming atmosphere. Ms. Jill Scott showed me the beauty of my original design and the earthy chocolate brown love that I bring as a Black American woman.

Erykah Badu’s debut album and the following live version spoke of a life I never knew. Then someone was planted to briefly cross my path and give me a book – I love when God uses the universe for me that way. I read Queen Afua’s Sacred Woman: A Guide to Healing the Feminine Body, Mind and changed my eating and drinking habits from the soul-food and processed foods on which I lived (or maybe survived is a better term). I saw her in impossibly tall head wraps, ankh jewelry, torn and cut t-shirts and saw glimpses into myself. My introduction to the ankh changed my opinion of the Christian cross – I choose the ankh because it is life-affirming while for me the cross is a reminder of a horrible death. I see the effects of “meeting” Erykah Badu all over my life years later. And I am grateful that she broke me open and showed me that life could be a different color than my parents painted for me.

Jill Scott’s debut album took a little longer to win me over. It had absolutely nothing to do with her, her talent, nor her artistry, but because of the state of my life in 2000. I was angry just in general and I didn’t even notice until my sister called me Rebel Gina. She brought to my attention that my wardrobe consisted solely of the colors olive green and black – grey and black for work and church. I was essentially in military camo. But hearing ‘Gettin’ in The Way’ on the radio at work was enough to purchase the CD on September 16, 2000. I remember the actual date because I was grieving my mother for her birthday, so much so that I couldn’t go in to work that day. I ate comfort foods and listened to her words and sounds and was uplifted by the end of the day. Jill Scott showed me the poetry of life which lead me to reading poetry for the first time in my life. She talked about heartbreaks that can be healed when you love yourself. And I opened up to the possibilities of real and true and good love. It led to one of the most significant relationships of my life and the healing of a previous relationship that left me shattered.

I am a Christian and I have mixed emotions about admitting the truth that Erykah Badu and Jill Scott healed my wounds and paved the way for my soul to shine much more so than my Christian path. But for the sake of being really honest, Christians and their ministering intentions didn’t touch what neo-soul did for my birth-soul*. How many times have I been told, “read your Bible and pray” as a catch-all remedy for whatever was going on in my life? Now, make no mistake, I believe it is necessary to my Christian path to read my Bible and pray. But there is something different about sharing your real-life experience and how you overcame similar suffering. Not one of the Christians who ministered to me accepted that I live with a Bipolar Disorder II diagnosis and maintain mood stability with medication. Not one of the Christians who ministered to me told me about how life-long dreams can seem to never come true despite everything you put out there. Not one of the Christians who ministered to me has waited decades to walk in their purpose with no idea if it really will come to pass. Not one of them was ever love-sick.

Erykah Badu and Jill Scott allowed Gina to begin to shine from her southern roots. Neo-soul perfumed my air with patchouli, sandalwood, jasmine, and vanilla. Neo-Soul colored my days in rich earth tones. Neo-Soul filled in and rounded out my spirituality. Neo-Soul showed me that not only nerds love words and that artists are found everywhere – not just in fine arts. And I am so grateful for what neo-soul did for my birth-soul*.

*I’m tragically defining “birth-soul” as the inner “real me” – the person Gina was created and intended to be.

5 Min Read, Parenting, Relationships, Robert Samuel Walker, Spirituality, What's In A Name?

Runaway Spirit or Wandering Spirit?

Regina Lynette

I once walked away from Christianity as I knew it. I didn’t exactly denounce Christ as my savior, but I let go of every single thing except the fact that I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior and was therefore saved – my anchor point of remaining a Christian. I joked (because it was uncomfortable to talk about) that I was going AWOL from the Army of the Lord. I wanted, no needed, to let go of everything and get down to the basics. I stripped away everything that felt limiting and tried everything I found curious. I wanted to learn for myself what it meant to be a Christian because my teachers and preachers had taken Christianity and packaged it in manipulation and contradictory philosophies bound with illogical rules that were not Biblical. This action didn’t please Daddy, although he wasn’t around for the peak of my departure. He was around when I started questioning things and even challenging him on things. Most often he responded to me calmly, matter-of-fact-ly (I did that on purpose), and honestly. Occasionally he reacted from past traumas from past experiences with “church-folk”. But never did he use Christianity or our Baptist beliefs as a weapon or a tool to sway me in any direction. So when my questions turned to a need to physically explore, he told me it was okay. He said that I have a wandering spirit and though he didn’t say it explicitly, he believed that because Christianity, specifically Missionary Baptist was the truth and the way that I would return.

At the peak of my departure from Christianity as I knew it, I had a couple of close friends who were “church friends”. Our friendship was based on living according to Christian principles and almost served an explicit purpose of keeping each other on the straight and narrow. While I knew they were very pious, I didn’t learn the nature of our friendship until it ended, you know 20/20. When I was exposed to the leaders and preachers that they followed and called anointed, I began to see more of the hypocritical and manipulative tactics used against parishioners and their ignorance and this caused fissures in the friendships. I was told that I have a runaway spirit – among other demonic spirits that had supposedly overcome me.

Senior year of college, standing in front of the church I belonged to at the time. A friend is cut out of the picture.
Dear friend, if you remember being in this photo, it’s nothing personal but I just needed to be a solo picture and I didn’t find another.

Wandering Spirit was a compliment and Runaway Spirit was an insult. Well, maybe Wandering Spirit wasn’t intended exactly as a compliment but it was something that my father saw in me and accepted, allowing me to choose to embrace it if I wanted. Is that really true? Yep. Runaway Spirit was a term to encourage me to get back on track, whatever that was, and it felt derogatory and manipulative. Is that really true? Eh…

I’ve only shared one situation here in which I was called a Wandering Spirit by my father and a Runaway Spirit by others but both of those identifiers have a long list of items behind them. And my behavior has been both Wandering and Runaway at times. When I learn that something I’ve always believed is true is flawed in some way, I need to test it for myself. I need to get to the root of the truth, the unadulterated truth, the pure truth, and I need to be right – not insisting that people agree with me no matter what but to know the thing that is true and right. When something is no longer serving me I let it go – sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always completely. When a person is crushing my spirit or rejects the parts of me that they don’t particularly like or understand, I remove them from the closest parts of my spirit, my soul, my heart. And anything that gives me bad vibes – a space or a person – is something I leave quickly. If I wander and don’t return to the thing I wandered off from, have I runaway?

College years again, at a collegiate Christian conference. Again, a friend is cut out of the picture.
Dear friend, we took a lot of college + church photos together. And I didn’t find any of me alone. Nothing personal.

Runaway spirit is an identifier, placed on me by limiting and closed minded people, probably with what they believe to be good intentions. I’ve left it behind.

As a little girl Mommy would always tell me to stay with her whenever we entered a store. If my big brother or sister was with us I would beg to go with them. Sometimes she let me but often she insisted I stay by her side. I think that every single time we entered any of the stores we entered during all 13 years I had her in my life that I managed to get lost in that store to some degree. Eventually I mastered the return quickly enough to not cause too much trouble but it all depended on what caught my eye and prompted me to wander off. Sissy has told me that often she turns to say something to me when we’re walking and suddenly I’m not there. And there have been plenty of times that I’ve had to stand still and be found in a store, like I did three weeks ago. As an adult I’ve truly felt like telling a stranger that I lost my sister in a store so I can get some help. But it’s always because I’ve needed to know more about something I’ve seen. And I always return to the original purpose of our outing.

Runaway Spirit or Wandering Spirit?

Iam Regina Lynette. I am a Wandering Spirit.

5 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, My Body, Parenting, Smart and Pretty, Why This Blog?

I absolutely hate having my photograph taken.

Regina Lynette

When I decided to explore my identity publicly via this blog I decided to include a photograph of myself with each post. This makes me extremely uncomfortable but I thought it was an important part of my identity – the entire topic of the blog. And I believed it would be a way to become more comfortable with my appearance and photographs.

I didn’t always hate having my picture taken. When I was a kid I photo-bombed as much as possible before it was a thing. I can remember actually crying real tears when Mommy was taking pictures of someone outside in the backyard and wouldn’t take one of me. She had one shot left on the roll of film when she finished and allowed me to pose. Did she save me the last one? Was it by chance? All of that is irrelevant because I loved the photo in my sundress, arms up and out (which seems to be my favorite pose, even now).

Above: Some of my favorite photo bombs – back when you didn’t know what you had for weeks while you waited for your film to be developed. My height worked against me but I still tried to get in there.

Below: I managed to dry those tears real quick, throw my hands in the air and work the camera.

Mommy’s insistence that I smile a certain way and pose a certain way grew old. School photos became a source of mild anxiety. If my hair was not the same as it was when I left the house that morning she didn’t understand why my teachers didn’t fix it. If I didn’t smile quite right she didn’t understand why I made that face. If flaws were shown – snaggle teeth or squinty eyes – she told me what I needed to do to correct or hide them. It sounds horrible, and it felt that way, but I do understand fully what she was trying to do. You had one shot to get a beautiful picture when using film and she believed I was beautiful. She just wanted the camera to capture what she saw.

Then as I gained weight and became a fat woman, I hated documenting that in pictures. And when I lost weight I still saw that fat woman in photographs and that was usually the end of whatever diet I was trying because why work hard if I couldn’t achieve what I wanted. And today I hate to wear makeup having struggled with acne since I’m 9, contact lenses mostly because pollen and an astigmatism, and anything other than destructed denim and graphic tees for comfort. I wear sneakers everyday and fight to cover my fast-growing gray hair that cruelly started along my hairline, impossible to disguise. I don’t like taking pictures, but I take them for one reason only – family memories. Mommy reached a point in life where she hated having her picture taken, too, and we regret not having enough photos of her to show people documentation of our memories. I know that photos are your source of remembering life events and that it’s important to have them no matter what you look like at the time.

After seeing this photo, I was literally disgusted at the sight of myself. But I didn’t demand a re-take because we were making travel memories (a family member is the blurred and deleted image beside me). And no re-takes were going to make me look smaller. And I was already convinced I could never look better.

I hope to stop avoiding the camera during this phase of peeling back the layers to expose my true self. I hope that I can ignore whatever I consider flawed and begin to embrace the things that are the charm of me. And I hope that I can look back on photos and remember the joy of celebrations, the enlightenment of travels, and the love among loved ones and close ones. For now, the way that I am working on that is by posting as many photographs as I can find and take of myself (click here for the gallery updated often) while I talk about who I truly am as a whole person. It won’t be me in every post but I’ll make a significant appearance.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Robert Samuel Walker, What's In A Name?

Rebel Gina

Regina Lynette

Why would I expect to behave just like all of my family? I was born “off-generation” – my father was old enough to be my grandfather. He was number 5 in a family of 15 children. The brother that I know he spent most of his happier times with was 20 years younger than he. My first cousins weren’t my friends because they were old enough to be my parents. My oldest siblings were old enough to be my parents. In fact, 3 nieces and a nephew are older than I. My youngest siblings were not my friends but my secondary care-givers as they were teenagers in the house when I was born. And because I was born into a blended family – the sole member in the Venn diagram of my family – my home culture was different than that of any of my siblings. The day-to-day norms of my father’s first family unit were different than those of my mother’s first family unit and different than those of my day-to-day norms. Why would I expect to behave just like all of my family?

Why would I expect to look just like all of my family? I was the only child between my parents. I have no other siblings with both my mother’s and my father’s genes combined. I don’t particularly look like my oldest siblings who possess half of my father’s genes and half of their mother’s genes. I don’t particularly look like my youngest siblings and we all have different fathers. My paternal grandfather was gone well before I was born and I never saw a photograph of him until I was an adult. I couldn’t find myself in his face. My paternal grandmother was around for the first 8 years of my life but I probably saw her about 8 times in that life. I couldn’t find myself in her face – she was in her 80s for all of my life which I’m sure didn’t help. I didn’t see my face in that of my paternal aunties and uncles. I didn’t look like my cousins. My maternal grandfather was essentially a question mark and as far as genetics from him he remains a question mark. A photograph was sent to me fairly recently that is unconfirmed but highly likely him and I don’t see myself in his face. My maternal grandmother was unknown to me except in a photograph and I couldn’t find myself in that picture. I didn’t find my face in my mother’s only sibling – my uncle has a different father than my mother. Why would I expect to look just like all of my family?     

Why would I expect to be the same person as all of my family? They are my tribe but I was not raised in my tribe. I was raised as if I were an only child. I was raised in a household of three people of three generations. I was raised by people who intentionally raised me with a different hand than the one they’d used to raise their older children. And I was raised in a vacuum of sorts – we were estranged from much of my family both immediate and extended. I was born in what has now been considered a sub-generation, not quite the generation before and not quite the generation after, a proud Xennial. I lived in what was considered “the country” to my maternal family and what was considered “the city” to my paternal family. And much of my life was presented to our community as a series of lies of omission. To be accepted by all the different sectors of my tribe, when necessary for us to interact, I had to imitate a person they would admire and value. Why would I expect to be the same person as all of my family?

When Mommy sent me out with Daddy alone, she told me not to be myself and to not let people see how I really act. I think I’ll just leave that right there for now.

The first years after college graduation were pretty hellish for me (and therefore everyone else around me). If rage could be a person, I was that person. Rage and fury kept my blood between a low simmer and a rolling boil all day every day. During that period of time my sister named me Rebel Gina. The first time she gave me that name she explained that she was confused by my behavior and even pointed out that I looked like I was dressed for combat – I wore Army green and black when I wasn’t wearing heather gray and black which I associated with grief, funeral clothes. My hair was short and red and wild – it was chemically relaxed but I didn’t straighten it with heat and let it dry by holding my head out the window speeding down the highways. I listened to rock music – an unofficial no-no for my family and according to what I’d been told, not intended for black people in general. I wasn’t in church every time the doors opened. In fact, I didn’t have a church home for the first time in my life though I generally attended my sister’s church at the time. And things considered New Age and Occult captured my interest. What was happening was I was experimenting with the “real” me who was screaming to be released from oppression.

I miss Rebel Gina even though she was too angry for me to embrace with joy. And Rebel Gina was not intended to be a compliment of any kind – maybe not quite an insult but it was not intended as a good name. In my rage I loved the name she gave me. It fit what was happening; I truly was rebelling against everyone and everything all day every day. If Rebel Gina wants to come back wearing graphic tees and destructed denim, teaching me how to relax, she’s welcome. If she can simply revel in the joy and charm of Regina Lynette, she’s very welcome to stay.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Mental Health, My Body, Parenting, Robert Samuel Walker, Smart and Pretty

I am a Fat Woman. And I don’t love that Fat Woman.

Regina Lynette

The women in my life during those tender years when a baby girl starts imagining what she will become when she’s older were my mother and her second child (Sissy). Mommy was 34 years old when I was born, and I was her third child. And in the end she found I had stolen her girlish figure and threw it in the trash when she wasn’t looking. To little girls imagining what she will become when she’s older, a person who hates her own body is not the person you want to become. So this little girl looked to her older sister.

Sissy was 14 years old when I was born. And what I didn’t know then but would soon realize, God didn’t design me to be my sister’s twin. And to make sure I was never confused about His intention, in His infinite wisdom and with His ultimate creative self He made us opposites in nearly every way but gender and race.

Me and Sissy

When I could see that I was already “curvier” than Sissy somewhere around age 5 (19 for her) I wanted to start dieting. Mommy was forever on a diet so I wanted to get started early so I could make sure I grew up to look like Sissy and not Mommy. Well, I don’t know what you tell a mother who understands exactly why her 5-year-old little girl wants to diet – the world was still calling her “healthy” – and also knows that it’s completely unreasonable for her 5-year-old little girl to go on a diet. It would take a couple years but unfortunately, Mommy eventually gave me her blessing and we dieted together well before my first signs of puberty. She was careful to monitor my dieting and modified it according to whatever standards she thought best and we added intentional exercise to the regular roller skating, bike riding, and running I did while playing with my friends. And I always managed to lose some weight but never in the places I wanted and never enough to keep me from being called “healthy”.

Me and Sissy

God was also constantly reminding me that I was not created in the image of Sissy. To really hammer it in that I was not her twin, He showed me just how different we would forever be. She was pregnant when I was 12 years old. In her early pregnancy, you know those weeks where your clothes are just starting not to fit but you’re not quite ready for maternity wear, was the first step toward my resignation of my fat-girl destiny. My clothes were the clothes she borrowed when her own were too tight. In case you didn’t catch it, at 12 years old, my 26-year-old pregnant sister needed to borrow my clothes. My 12-year-old clothes were maternity clothes for my 26-year-old sister. I blamed this one on God even though I was angry at the entire world around me. It just wasn’t fair.

Me and Sissy

Just before I went away to college I weighed myself and started accepting my fate as a fat-girl with less anger. I was what I judged too close to my father’s weight at the time. And then my only goal became to always weigh less than he – a man 4 inches taller than me and slim with long limbs. The day I outweighed him, I went to the “fat-girl” shops to find something large enough to drape my sow-shaped body and found little solace in the fact that the smallest sizes were too large. I was struggling to find my size – how could I be fat at Lerner New York and skinny at Lane Bryant? I couldn’t understand it and hated my body more. I resorted to what I’d done my entire life – diet and exercise and lose a few pounds, giving up after not losing enough weight and not in the right places.

Me and Sissy

I would repeat this cycle until 7 years ago when I just gave up. I don’t imagine I’ve given up forever, but I am still stuck in the give up. Just before I gave up I had lost over 40 pounds and was very excited about my progress. The first blow was that my bloodwork didn’t show enough improvement to match the effort I was putting in. The second blow was when I looked back on some photos of me as a kid and I didn’t see a fat girl looking back at me. I felt betrayed by all the people who had called me “healthy” when I was a perfectly average little girl. It was enough to push me over the edge into a depression that would take nearly a year to climb out of (with medication and talk therapy) having regained all but ten pounds of the weight I’d lost.

Me and Sissy

I had always believed that I was a fat girl. But I also had always been told (and believed) that I could fight it and become what I’d always wanted anyway – slim. And I am not sure if we’re in the middle of that story or the end.

I am a Fat Woman. And I don’t love that Fat Woman.